


hard to see tomorrow past tonight.

by ohyellowbird



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Crying, Elizabeth knows what's up, Established Relationship, Infidelity-ish, Jealousy, M/M, Porn, Unhealthy Relationship-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 05:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: Timmy has a nude photo leaked. It isn't one he sent to Armie.





	hard to see tomorrow past tonight.

_POV - Armie_

Liz makes the offhand remark while she’s packing the kids’ snack bag for the plane. Little square tubs of celery and almond butter, carrot slices shaped like flowers, organic cheese crackers. Her hands are graceful birds, fluttering over countertops. “Have you been online yet?”

“No,” Armie responds automatically, face in a book while she buzzes through the kitchen. They have a rule about not plugging in until after breakfast on work-free days. His palm lifts of its own accord to accept the extra scrap of mozzarella she drops into it. “Yum.”

She makes a woeful noise around a cherry tomato. “I had to check my flight status. Anyway, people are sick. It’s all over the internet. Poor Timmy, he must be heartbroken. You should give him a call.”

Timmy’s name shivers up Armie’s spine. He sets his book down with a thump and straightens in his stool at the breakfast bar. “What are you talking about?” 

Elizabeth cuts an apple into even slices, shaving off any remnants of core with elegant precision. “The news story about him? Wow, you really haven’t been online yet, I’m impressed--it’s everywhere. Somehow he had a photo leaked; a nude. I’m heartbroken for him. And really fucking angry.”

Nude photos? Of Timmy?

A wave of nausea crashes into Armie as his entire world drops unceremoniously off of its axis.

This isn’t happening.

This _can’t_ be happening.

Inwardly, he destabilizes, a tall building collapsing from the bottom up. Gravity displaced, his heart sucks itself against the back wall of his ribs, seizes up with terror. 

His mind is a battle royale over which part of this is going to the worst, but one question manages to climb above the rest: _how?_

Was it Timmy’s phone or his that got hacked? And how the fuck did they manage that? He and Tim have always been so careful. Nothing over social media or email, that was the rule. Only via text, and generally always deleted - except for the one Timmy sent last Thanksgiving, in the tub at his parent's house, bubbles in his hair and a flush high on his cheeks. 

And if it came from his own phone, then why the hell isn’t his name being plastered on every viable gossip site as the recipient of said pictures? 

Is he going to be blackmailed? 

Jesus Shitting Christ, he’s overwhelmed by a violent sting of worry. For Timmy, for himself, for their families and careers. Liz already knows, but his and Timmy’s parents don’t. And the public, god, they’ll devour this story, and his and Timmy’s entire world along with it.

In the span of a few sentences, everything has changed.

Armie comes up for air from the warzone of his thoughts. “God, that’s--that’s terrible. Poor Tim.”

Liz is still looking at him. She quirks her head like there’s a question or two behind her lips but decides to keep them caged, turns her attention instead to Harper tugging on her skirt. 

“Mommy, I can’t find my green bear. He wanted to come with us.”

She bends to pet Harper sweetly, fixing a strand of silken blond behind her ear. “We can bring him next time, sweetie. but right now we have to leave so we can go see Grandma.”

Then she pops back into view. “Crap, the car is probably already here. We have to go. Can you pick us up Sunday afternoon? I’ll send you the details once we’re in the car and I have a second.”

“Sure, sure. Have a good time with your mother. I’ll hold down the fort,” Armie says. He really does mean it but right now he’s just so far inside his own head that Elizabeth and the kids are little more than shapeless silhouettes. He kisses Liz mechanically when she steps nearer, and squeezes Harper and Ford when they cuff around his legs for goodbyes. “You two keep her in line, okay?”

Ford laughs and Harper nods seriously, “I will, Daddy. Promise!”

As soon as they’ve made it safely out the door, Armie drops into the nearest chair and whips his phone out of his pocket, pecking TMZ into Google. His heart is a jackhammer hellbent on drilling its way out of his chest and onto the cream-colored rug in front of him.

He doesn’t have to scroll or search. As soon the page loads it’s right there.

BEAUTIFUL BOY INDEED - TIMOTHEE CHALAMET’S NUDE PHOTO LEAKED ON REDDIT

Hatred boils in Armie’s gut for whoever is responsible for the title, that someone could write about Timmy with such vile intentions. 

Holding his breath, he jumps down the page with his thumb. The pictures are behind a censored warning. Armie clicks through before his rationale can catch up with him. 

The grainy image loads and three thoughts enter his mind all at once:  


1\. Timmy isn’t completely nude. His hair, skin, underwear is wet. And you can clearly make out the shape of his cock, so lovely that Armie is distracted into lust for a moment before remembering the situation. But he isn’t fully dick out, which might make things less humiliating for him, Armie hopes.  


2\. He looks unbearably good. Timmy is outside in low light--maybe next to a pool--and reclining on a lounger in white boxer briefs. His eyes are hooded and he’s smirking. holding himself with one hand and his phone, presumably, with the other.  


3\. It’s a photo that Armie’s never seen.

A breeze of relief that his phone hasn’t been hacked and that he’s safe from this entire media shitshow is immediately overrun by a tornado of anger and hurt. 

 

 

_POV - Timmy_

Trembling, Timmy dials for a ride as soon as Armie hangs up their phone call. 

He hadn’t explained his reasoning for wanting to see Timmy, simply asked in a flat voice if Timmy was still in L.A. after his last press appearance and then that he come over. He doesn’t say what the rush is, but Timmy knows. 

He sits in forty-five minutes of traffic with nerves the size of rats chewing into his belly. He’s seen the photo, the stories. Only by chance did Armie’s call reach him. Timmy shut his phone off after his voicemail filled up with friends and relatives calling on him, either to break the news or offer condolences, like either would help at this point. He’d only powered it back on to check that he wasn’t forgetting any appointments on his iCal, and just as his messages were loading, Armie’s face had taken over the screen

It’s obvious who leaked the pic: someone from Laguardia that Timmy had hooked up with a few times over the last summer when Armie and he were going months without seeing each other, and fighting when they did. They must have gotten upset with Timmy for ghosting, though it wasn’t like he even meant to. He just got busy, had too many priorities piling up and needed to trim unnecessary energy spends. 

And honestly, he isn’t _that_ bothered by the scandal itself. It’s a gross invasion of privacy, but the people in his life won’t think any less of him and the industry loves publicity, no matter the flavor. And if he’s lucky enough to survive the ups and downs of the film industry, he will likely have more revealing scenes during his career than this one poor quality shot of his dick in a pair of soggy underwear.

It’s not the scandal but Armie’s reaction to it that has him flirting with a panic attack.

“Mr. Chalamet?”

Timmy’s head snaps up to find that they are parked at the top of Armie’s driveway. His driver’s worried eyes are in the rearview mirror.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, passing up a folded bill as thanks before climbing out. 

The sun feels like a personal affront from where it is shining high and bright in the empty sky. 

It takes him nearly five minutes to brew the courage to knock, butterflies the size of hawks battering against the inside of his ribs. 

Before he’s even halfway there, the door is being opened.

Armie is waiting behind it, looking as unreal as ever in a white button-up shirt and red chinos, a GQ ad come to life. Timmy’s first instinct is to climb into his arms, but he reels it back, puts on what he hopes is a neutral expression and nods, bolted down by nerves.

“Hi.”

“Yeah, hi,” Armie says tightly, and that’s it, so Timmy slips past him, under his arm and into the house. He isn’t going to do this on the porch.

“Where are Liz and the kids?” He bounces through the big family room, peers into the hallway and up the wooden staircase. Archie wags his tail from a bed by the laundry room.

Armie doesn’t follow him, speaking loudly from the foyer. “Visiting her mother for the weekend.”

“Ah, cool cool.”

The high ceilings and large windows of Armie’s new house can do nothing to prevent the stale, cloying air that settles. Awkwardness forces its way down Timmy’s throat with every measured inhale.

They both sway with hands in pockets or arms folded, looking through the wide, warm space at one another. Armie looks like he has half a mind to run, a flight risk in his own house. But the other side of that coin is much more likely. He did invite Timmy over after all, and his frame is coiled tight, a cobra lying in wait. 

Timmy feels the same way he does when he’s had too much to drink. He would rather just puke up his stomach full of booze and go to bed than suffer through wall-melting dizziness for another hour or two. He can’t stand the anticipation of the fight that Armie is clearly spoiling for, loathes this false calm that comes over him when he’s angry.

Which is exactly why he ends up pushing down any fear and worry in order to walk right up to Armie still standing by the door. “You saw it,” he says, to shove them out of stasis and because that much is obvious. Everyone in the western hemisphere has seen the photo by now. “I’m sorry, okay? But I feel shitty enough about it without, without you--”

Armie narrows his eyes. “You’re _sorry?_ ”

Timmy throws his hands out, seeking mercy, but when Armie remains stone, he takes a step back. “I sent that picture forever ago. Like, last summer, when you and I were all fucked up.”

“You never said anything.” Armie’s deep voice is painfully even. “When we made up, I asked you point blank if you’d slept with anyone else and you said no.”

Timmy bristles, breathes sharply out through his nose. “I highly doubt I said no. I may have dodged the question or something, to avoid another fight. But I wouldn’t have lied to you.”

“That’s fucked, Tim. I can't even wrap my head around it. How could you?”

“We’ve talked about this before. Never once did I--”

“Have you been with anyone since then?”

The pause that comes next says miles more than he wants to. 

“Huh.” The crease between Armie’s brow deepens as the silence stretches. He looks at Timmy, then out the large living room windows towards the sunshine, and back. “Are you being safe?”

It’s a simple question with secret thorns and it changes the tide of conversation dramatically. It makes Timmy want to claw off his own face and scream. Instead, he fights to keep his voice level, and fails. His jaw locks forward. “You know I am, always. Except with you. How could you even ask me that? I would never put you or Liz in danger of catching anything.”

Armie picks at his back teeth with his tongue, considering Timmy’s words the same way you might mull over what to select off of a menu. It’s all for show. “Apparently I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.”

Timmy yanks at his hair, traces out his own lips with a fingertip in a weak attempt to stay calm. “Jesus Christ. I’m already having a horrific enough day without you freaking out.”

“Oh, well excuse me for not enjoying this new development AKA the fact that my boyfriend is fucking around on me, and with idiots no less - girls who are down to humiliate you for a quick buck - super cool, Tim. You have great taste.”

“Obviously,” Timmy spits with a pointed look at Armie. “You’re not allowed to throw a fit because I slept with someone else. We’ve talked about this so, so many times, it’s insane. You can’t keep me for yourself while you’re still married. I see you like once a month, if that. And before you fucking start, no I am not asking you to leave her. But that’s the deal. I don’t tell you about it because it doesn’t have anything to do with you, but you must know it’s happening.”

Armie quiets down for a minute, turning his anger inward. He scolds himself, eyes downcast. rolls his pink tongue over and over his bottom lip. “I thought we were good...”

“Of course you did,” Timmy cuts in with a bitter breath of laughter, coming closer, “all of your needs were being met. You get the happy, perfect life with a beautiful wife and kids, and a dog. And you also get the fun side piece, an escape for when you want a sneaky, thrilling fuck, or when you want to play pretend.” He gestures to the huge home they’re fighting in, the antithesis to his apartment in New York, “It’s not like that for me.”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t think I was.”

Armie’s glare is more grey than blue, dark like the open ocean during a storm. Absently, he toys with his wedding ring, spinning it with his thumb. “Who is she?”

“ _He,_ ” Timmy corrects, chin out in defense. His eyes are on Armie’s face. They witness this loaded correction striking Armie, witness how it shatters something inside of him that Timmy didn’t know existed.

For a second, it’s like Armie can’t compute it. He blinks doubletime, expression clouding over with confusion. “He?” Armie repeats, swallowing against the word. Most of the venom is gone from his voice but something worse takes its place. A naked, bleeding hurt.

Timmy has to look away. “Yeah. This, uh, guy I knew in high school. James.” 

He doesn’t know why he says that. Armie doesn’t need to know any of the details, only suddenly he wants to. 

“What’s he like?” Armie asks with unbearably soft eyes. “Do you like him? What’s he look like? Does he still live in New York?”

The questions continue, and Timmy fields them each as carefully as he can, feeling like something of a bomb defuser, nearly shaking apart at the idea of taking the wrong tone. After the first few, he begins to realize what it is that Armie really wants to know: if James looks like _he_ does, if in any universe he could be a potential replacement.

“Armie,” Timmy whines eventually, when the interrogation still hasn’t ceased. “What does it matter?” He lolls his head back on his shoulders, combing through his tangled curls. This has been one of the most uncomfortable mornings of his adult life and so far Armie is doing his utmost to keep them steady on.

It is with that one frustrated sigh, Timmy yearning for a reprieve in their fighting where they can talk without weaponized words and maybe sit down, that their argument mutates once again, evolving into something entirely foreign to any of their many previous spats. 

All of the emotion and all of the air leaves the room in one violent gust. 

Armie chews his inner cheek, silent for a moment, and then he looks away, disconnecting from Timmy’s gaze to stare resolutely at his own feet. “I guess it doesn’t,” he says faintly, nodding in concession. “We should probably, I dunno, take some time.” 

How can one sentence sound like surrender but feel so much more like a punch? 

Any remnant of Timmy’s defensive snarl evaporates. He goes cold. In all of their arguments, even the nastiest, when one or both of them are drunk and yelling, Armie has never once suggested that they take a break. Timmy can’t count the number of times he’s threatened to walk, but Armie has talked him and loved him out of leaving every single time. 

Where the silence had felt oppressive before, it suddenly feels like a sanctuary. Things can’t decline any further if they just wait out the storm here in the quiet. But Armie chases it away too soon. 

“You’re so young,” he continues sadly, carried away by a sudden, sweeping current that Timmy wants to dam up, “and me and Liz--it hurts you. You’ve been a saint about it this long, thank you, but it hurts you. And I can’t. I can’t deal with the idea of you seeing other people so.” The longer he speaks, the more confidence he has in what he’s saying. Reasons build up bumper to bumper behind his teeth, waiting to be added to the laundry list for why this isn’t working.

Timmy feels helpless listening to Armie rationalize their end. He opens and shuts his mouth more than once, unable to find the magic words that will reverse time to back before he’d allowed them to wander so far down this path. 

Armie is looking at him with reddening eyes, but the rest of his face is eerily calm. It doesn’t react to anything, remains stoic and impassive, drained of the searing emotion that is usually boiling over when they fight. “I love you, Tim,” Armie says, but the sentiment sounds like an apology and that really fucking scares him. 

Timmy cracks, tears welling up and rolling down his cheeks in fat drops. “ _I love you,_ ” he grinds out forcefully, mopping hastily at his face. With his entire world going out of focus, he needs to be able to see Armie right now. 

“We’ve been treading water for a while,” Armie points out gently, blinking back the wetness in his own eyes. “Things can’t go on like this forever. You aren’t happy, and you have so much living ahead of you. And I--it kills me to think of you with someone else.”

“ _Stop!_ ” Timmy rushes out, panicked. He surges into Armie’s space, flattening his hands out across Armie’s chest, fingers curling into the front of his button-up. “Let’s press pause. I’m sorry about the picture, okay? And James, whoever else. Come sit with me, we can talk about this.”

Every single amorphous worry connected to the nude photo leak has vanished, replaced by an urgent fear so tangible that he can taste it, bitter at the back of his throat. He tries to swallow it down, head angled back to beg Armie’s eyes from up this close. 

“We can fix it, we can fix it,” he babbles, the tears flowing in earnest now that Armie feels as though he might turn to dust under Timmy’s hands. 

Armie cradles Timmy’s cheeks in his broad, careful palms, sweeps both thumbs beneath his eyes to clear any slickness away. His voice when he speaks is just as gentle. “Shh, shh. Timmy. Baby, It isn’t working, it isn’t enough for you. And maybe, when I think about it, I--”

Timmy doesn’t let Armie finish that thought; he can’t bear to hear it pass from brain to mouth and into the room as something real. Beyond desperate, he fists into the crisp material of Armie’s shirt, dragging him in and forcing their mouths together to snuff it out completely. 

He clamps one hand around the back of Armie’s neck so that their chests are completely molded together and, pressing up onto his toes, seals them into a proper kiss.

Reflexively, Armie grips Timmy around the waist to keep them steady, but he doesn't kiss back, and his touch is familial. It doesn’t want or pull, simply serves to keep them both upright. 

“Please,” Timmy whimpers, mouth sliding towards Armie’s ear. He throws himself against Armie’s self-restraint as a reality where they are not together builds up around them. “ _Please, please._ ” 

He has to snap his mind shut against the onslaught of images that arise, of their stiff, awkward hellos on any subsequent red carpets, of only hearing about Armie’s life events through the hollywood grapevine, of having to explain who Armie was to him when future lovers find him detached or unloving. 

They close in, these terrible snapshots of a life he has yet to imagine even once since filming in Italy. But just before they drown him, Armie relents, with a low sound that rumbles Timmy’s cheekbone. His grip tightens into something overtly possessive and he chases Timmy’s lips, kissing him back, frantic where he’d been muted only moments ago. He reels Timmy in by the pelvis, bowing him back with the fervor of his assault.

Timmy’s knees nearly buckle with relief. He could sob, wants to even, but instead pushes his tongue into Armie’s mouth and blindly begins to pull him backward.

They stumble together, nearly toppling before they bump into the side of the long white sofa in the center of the living room. Timmy has unbuttoned Armie’s shirt in the interim and pulls it down his arms, never dropping their kiss once. He then rips out of his own without help and crab-crawls over the armrest, Armie following after. 

They collapse in a heap across the cushions, Armie pouring himself over Timmy. “Need to feel you,” Timmy bleeds out, “right now, now, now.” 

Inside, he is a roiling sea with dangerous waters, the kind capable of sinking ships and Armie steers right into him anyway, unafraid.

Armie growls, tears open Timmy’s belt and snakes it out of his jeans, but it isn’t quick enough. Timmy slaps his hands away and yanks open his fly, drags his pants off along with his underwear and throws the tangle somewhere to his right.

Naked, he clings to Armie with arms and legs and mouth, needy and needing. He’s burning up, body buzzing, overfull with emotion. 

Armie slips his tongue over Timmy’s, licks against his lower lip, pinches it with his teeth. His touch feels frenetic, like an addict about to get his fix. His hand trembles when it reaches around Timmy’s flank to trace the swell of his ass cheek, mapping out the toned muscle before teasing closer to his hole. “This what you want?”

“Yes, fuck. Armie.”

Timmy gasps, turning his head into the crook of Armie’s neck when the blunt tip of his finger eases in, slicked up just before with Armie’s spit. He buries his face and clutches at Armie’s firm, winged shoulder blades. And then, suddenly, through the thick haze of lust and loving, a bolt of terror strikes him out of nowhere. It vibrates down every step of his spine and settles in his chest, pulsing out against his lungs, keeping him from being able to breathe.

The terror spills out, leaks from his mouth before he can stop it, his voice sounding strange and small. “Is this going to be the last time?” 

Armie freezes, drawing back until his eyes find Timmy’s only to bounce off to the left, to anywhere else. 

Timmy stares up at him, shivering shockwaves of fear when he won’t look back, when his jaw shifts like he’s fighting emotion. Armie wets his lips, scrubs absently over Timmy’s hairline with his thumb, forearm holding his weight.

“I don’t know.”

Panic swells. Timmy’s mouth quirks up into a sad smile against it. 

He’s trying not to cry; his face is already splotchy from doing so. One, two tears slide down and he crooks an arm around Armie’s neck. He wants to keep their faces close and rolls his hips backward against Armie’s hand, pushing down the fear. “Come on, more,” he whispers right against Armie’s temple, and cries out when indulged.

Soon, one finger is drawing back for two to press in, stretching Timmy open with half-patience. Armie is rough with it, nudging Timmy further back along the sofa with the force of his working wrist. He lowers his head and fits his mouth around the pale flesh where Timmy’s neck and shoulder meet, testing the resistance before biting down.

Timmy grinds out a scream into something lower, headier, turning to smother the sound in a back cushion. He wants to make demands, needing Armie inside of him, needing to feel the complete weight of him over and over again, needing it now, before the tide of reality rises again and sweeps all this away. But he’s also terrified for it to be over, because he doesn’t know what the picture of his life will look like once they’re done here.

“Love your fingers,” Timmy sighs, hips pistoning down to meet the rhythm Armie is fucking into him with. “Love the way you know how to do this, what I like. It feels...god, Armie.” He turns his head to mouth his praise right against Armie’s ear, his hand splaying up through Armie’s chest hair. He wants to memorize the sensation of it, of every detail that comes with Armie loving him before he loses himself completely. 

Armie’s face is still hidden in his throat, his teeth no longer clamped down but close to his skin, his breath huffing out damp puffs of air. “Lift your hips,” he says, and once Timmy has, he works in a third finger along with the first two, spears him, reaching for the spot inside that makes Timmy’s vision fuzz.

It’s good, the almost-burn of Armie coaxing him open, but mostly serves to intensify his hunger to feel truly filled by Armie’s cock. “I love you,” Timmy whispers, even though it seems out of place in a way he’d never expect that it might. And because of that, he says it again, aggressively, his lips against the hinge of Armie’s jaw.

Armie isn’t touching him with his other hand and feeling cold without it, Timmy puts both of his around the warm column of Armie’s throat, thumbs tracing underneath his chin, over the knot of his adam’s apple.

“Armie,” he whines, punching his pelvis down, “Please…” 

The fingers inside of him are suddenly gone, leaving him empty and exposed. “So greedy,” Armie chastises, but as he’s scolding Timmy he is also working open the button and zipper of his chinos, shoving them down his thighs.

Timmy watches him, heavy-lidded, from the V of his white, open legs. Armie looks better than any pornstar, tan and cut, his big cock spilling out of his burgundy pants and into his palm. Timmy’s mouth waters for that cock. It belongs in an anatomy book, looks more like a scientific illustration than anything you’d find at the local Y. Unconsciously, he wets his lips. But then, as Armie starts to come back towards him, Timmy crunches forward, puts out a warning hand against his chest.

“Wait,” he says, “Can I ride you?”

He wants better access to Armie, needs to be able to see his face, to press their chests together, to be sure that Armie is still as affected by him as he’s always been. Because right now it doesn’t feel that way. He’s hard and he’s horny for Armie, as always always always, but the part of his brain still whirring with concern just won’t submit.

The look that Armie gives him is indecipherable. There are multitudes in his cool blue eyes but they shutter before Timmy can put names to any of the emotions hidden there. 

His heart stumbles. His tongue stumbles.

“I mean, I’m sorry. We don’t have to if you don’t want to, we can do whatever you--” he rushes out, but then Armie is looking again, and drawing away to seat himself on the middle cushion, shoulders back and with both feet flat on the shag rug. He doesn’t beckon Timmy, but after a beat of stillness, Timmy scrambles into his lap anyway, shifting his hips to slot their cocks together and kissing Armie hotly on the mouth.

Armie is sluggish to respond to his kiss, shifting on the couch, his hands smoothing over Timmy’s ass, ghosting at his hole to check that he is ready.

Timmy shivers, rolling his weight down in Armie’s lap, against his chest, against his cock. “Please kiss me,” he breathes into Armie’s lips, eyes stinging behind closed lids. He has one hand cuffed around Armie’s shoulder and the other carded through his hair. 

“Wait,” Armie tells him, like he is incapable of multitasking, which is bullshit. But Timmy does, touching their foreheads together, his thumb playing idly at Armie’s earlobe.

He feels Armie lining himself up, lets out a jittery breath when the head of Armie’s cock catches on his rim. And then, his other hand clamping over the blade of Timmy’s hip, he guides it inside. No condom. No _‘are you sure you’re clean?’_ He still trusts Timmy enough to fuck him bare. 

Timmy’s eyes fly open, trained on Armie’s face. He watches with a loose mouth as Armie’s expression is dyed dark by the sensation of Timmy taking his cock, inch by inch. In one slow, fluid motion he is able to seat himself fully in Armie’s lap, his knees buried into the cushion crease at either side of Armie, his feet hanging off the couch, his toes curling. 

“You feel so,” Armie starts to tell him in a low, faraway voice, but Timmy doesn’t let him finish. 

“No, you do,” he counters, snapping his hips down to drive Armie even deeper. “So fucking good, I can’t--Armie, I love this.” He wriggles his hips, huffing out a moan.

The mix of sharp pleasure and dulled pain is delicious, but it is nothing compared to the push-pull drag that comes once Timmy begins to ride him. 

Armie forgets more of his reservations and cranes his head forward to kiss the pale line of Timmy’s throat, both of his hands molded to Timmy’s hips now, playing a melody out against his muscles as Timmy slowly grinds on Armie’s cock. His breath washes out over Timmy’s skin in shallow, staccato puffs, his tongue a warm, wet touch against his pulse.

Timmy is too gluttonous for Armie to stroke himself. There are better uses for his own hands. He lets them wander everywhere, skating down Armie’s big, muscular arms, mapping out the shape of his neck, his jaw. And he has his eyes half open to watch the way Armie is holding him, keeping Timmy angled towards his lap, his grip wide enough that his fingertips nearly come together at Timmy’s lower back. It’s too much, being loved like this.

The possibility of losing it is intolerable. 

Again, Timmy starts to cry. “I love you,” he pants, “I’m so fucking. Stupid in love with you.” He arches his back and lays forwards against Armie’s chest, hides his face in Armie’s nape. He dials in his focus on the way Armie feels inside of him, and of how he sounds.

The room gets louder and louder as they chase one another towards orgasm, Armie bucking up to meet Timmy’s every down-thrust, the two of them quickly finding an even, churning rhythm. 

Sweaty and breathing hard, at last, Timmy’s mind goes blank and he becomes wholly-consumed by feeling.

“So tight, baby,” Armie sighs, his deep voice sounding scraped out. He plasters his hands against the back of Timmy’s ribcage and very carefully leans him backward, never once letting him feel like he might fall. Timmy’s anchors his foot against a back cushion, clinging to Armie’s wide shoulders, the new position allowing them both better leverage. Within moments of the shift, he is seeing stars. 

Armie laves against the hollow at the center of Timmy’s clavicle with his tongue, hisses when Timmy bites his nails too sharply into the rounds of muscle. “You feel perfect,” he mumbles out against Timmy’s slippery, pale skin. “Like you were made for my cock, like nothing else makes sense but this.”

Timmy nods, one hand ruffling up through the damp, short hairs at Armie’s nape. And then he’s being moved.

Armie slips down off the couch, Timmy weightless in his arms as he lowers him to the rug and immediately covers Timmy with himself, pushing back inside. 

Timmy is half mad by the time his back meets the cream shag, thighs hooking high over Armie’s hips, one arm throwing itself over his eyes. “Don’t stop,” he breathes out, careening towards climax. Armie wedges a hand between them to jerk him off, biting bruises all along Timmy’s decolletage as his begins thrusting in hard, fast strokes. 

He drags his fingernails down the outside of Timmy’s leg, waist to knee, and Timmy spills without warning, chokes out some French into Armie’s shoulder, painting both of their stomachs and Armie’s hand. 

While he is spinning through an undiscovered galaxy, Armie traps his hips against the floor and fucks into him like a skipping record. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses against the messy halo of Timmy’s hair, and Timmy feels the way Armie’s ass spasms underneath his palms when he cums. 

Armie pumps a few more times post-orgasm, gentler, nestling his pelvis as tightly against the backs of Timmy’s thighs as possible. Then his entire body goes limp; he becomes a sweaty, weighted blanket that envelopes Timmy.

It takes a long time for them to both come down, chests swelling against one another as they lie, supine on the floor together.

Timmy stares up into the white ceiling, catching his breath, but as soon as Armie shifts like he’s going to pull out, Timmy shakes off the dreamy afterglow and locks his ankles at Armie’s lower back, anchoring him there.

“Tim…” Armie starts, and for the nth time this afternoon, Timmy begins to cry. He’s been right on the edge of tears since he stepped out of the car and this resigned, sweet tone that Armie keeps using on him is pushing him over the threshold again and again.

“Don’t say anything,” Timmy pleads, fisting his eyes shut and turning his head. His hands are cuffed around Armie’s biceps, kneading into the muscles under his fingertips.

Their terrible reality shoots up all around him, towering skyscrapers born out of nothing. He’s just been with Armie for the last time. All that’s left is a heartrending goodbye and the embarrassing ride back to his hotel.

Timmy punches out a sob and Armie shifts, eases free both of his arms, framing Timmy’s face with one forearm. He brushes a thumb over the seam of Timmy’s mouth, shakes him gently with a hand curved around his jaw. “Hey.” He dips his chin down, trying to snag Timmy’s eyes. They slip over to him reluctantly. “There you are.”

“I’m reallyreally sorry, Armie,” Timmy says, his voice thick with tears. His heart feels like it is going to jump out of his chest and into Armie’s, loathe to be without him.

Armie’s lips quirk up into the beginnings of a smile, “Me too.”

More wetness slides down towards Timmy’s ears. He squeezes Armie and coughs. “You’re amazing, and those other--those people, they didn’t matter to me. I don’t want you to think about it like that, okay? They were just, just distractions I guess.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself anymore. I get it,” Armie says, petting over Timmy’s cheekbone. His eyes are back to a warm, hazy blue. They remind Timmy of calm, tropical waters, of vacations they will never take together.

Timmy huffs in a long, staggered breath and then blows it out, letting his legs unshackle and fall against the rug. Armie could be calling him names and make him feel so much worse than he has. The least Timmy can do is be amicable about this, act like an adult. 

When Armie doesn’t immediately lift off of him, Timmy sort of shimmies beneath him, letting him know, if he didn’t, that he’s free. He does pull out then, but he doesn’t get up. He’s still looking down at Timmy with tenderness in his eyes and in his touch where he’s combing over Timmy’s curls with the backs of his fingers.

“You’re infuriating, do you know that?” Armie says, laughter in his soft voice.

Timmy just stares at him. “Yes.”

“And I’m still fucking pissed.”

Another sheet of tears. “I know.”

“I think you should move in.”

The abrupt proposal hangs in the air for longer than Timmy would later admit. It’s just that at first he swears he misheard, and then that Armie is being cruel. And the entire time he lays there computing it, Armie just continues playing with his hair.

“What are you--what? I can’t move in with you.”

“You absolutely can,” Armie corrects with a curled smile. “I brought it up with Liz already.”

Timmy balks at him, incredulous. “Fuck off. You’ve talked to Elizabeth about me living with you guys?”

“Yes, Timmy. That’s what I just said.”

“But I thought--”

“Yeah,” Armie sighs, “We’re not done talking about that.” His jaw flexes, relaxes. “But Liz, she knows, you know. And she’s fine with it. She doesn’t see you as a threat and she wants me to be happy. I was hoping to surprise you at dinner next week in New York, but--”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. It doesn’t have to be a huge deal. You can keep your place in New York and stay here when you’re in town. We haven’t moved anything into the upstairs guest room specifically for this reason.” The fondness in his face is almost unbearable for how awful and unloved Timmy made him feel not an hour ago. “I’m not sure how this works if I can’t see you more.”

“No more James’s. No more other people.”

“Right. Just me and you, and Liz, and I don’t give a flying fuck who knows. Can you be okay with that? We’d be a family.”

Timmy has to re-calibrate for a moment. Everything has changed and changed again so fast. And he has questions, but mostly he’s focused on not freaking crying again. The word family stands out in bold lettering in his mind. “Yeah, yeah. But what about Harper and Ford? And the press? And holidays? And--”

Armie stops his brain overheating with a kiss. “There are going to be more than a few minefields to maneuver through, we can start talking about that later. Maybe take Archie on a walk after a long, thorough shower.” He kisses Timmy again, longer this time, plucks at the inside of his upper lip with his tongue. “So. Will you move in with us?”

Timmy’s emphatic ‘ _yes_ ’ is lost in yet another kiss. Bubbling over with unbelievable, sudden joy, he rolls them so that he’s straddling Armie’s hips, hugging him when Armie sits up and brings both arms around his waist. 

His heart, mind, soul settles as they kiss, on a thoroughly ruined rug in Armie’s--and his--house.

“I love you, Armand Hammer,” he sighs happily. 

Armie grins so hard that his eyes become sparkling blue crescents. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Timmy parrots, mocking him, and collapses into a fit of high-pitched, wailing laughter when Armie grabs him around the ribs and tickles him in merciless retribution.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! 
> 
> the title comes from peach by the front bottoms. (so apropos!)
> 
> i am ohhyellowbird on tumblr.


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